


Don't Cry, Young Lovers

by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, First Time, Friends to Lovers, I did warn you that there was angst, Language, M/M, McLennon, McLennon in Paris, Mention of major death, Sexual Situations, Slow Burn, non-graphic descriptions of past violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-25 20:17:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12043497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cpenguing/pseuds/Celebratory%20Penguin
Summary: Greetings yet again from Overused Trope Land! This time we're with our boys in Paris, spending someone's hard-earned pay - I mean, John's 21st birthday money. (Sorry, Paul, I love you but “Two Of Us” is NOT ABOUT LINDA.)***John had chosen him. Not Cynthia, not Stuart, but Paul. And, amazingly, Paul's father had acquiesced to the trip with fewer dire predictions than anyone could have anticipated. He'd even pressed ten quid into his son's hands, "just in case."It was, Paul thought as he turned his suitcase on end to use as a night table, probably a sign that something was about to go terribly wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction. The character of Sylvie/Sarah is based on and dedicated to the mother of one of my childhood friends. May she be remembered for blessing.
> 
> The title is a line from the Rodgers/Hammerstein song "Hello, Young Lovers" from the musical "The King and I."

Paris  
October, 1961

 

The City of Lights was so much more beautiful, more bohemian, more enticing, more MORE, than either John or Paul could have imagined.

Once they set foot in Paris and made their way through the winding cobblestone streets in search of cheap lodgings and cheaper food, they fell deeply in love with the city and began looking for excuses not to venture further to Spain.

John's birthday money wasn't enough to allow them to travel in style, but it did get them a small, clean room with a window that let them look out on the glories of autumn. Paul's worries about sharing the tiny bed dissipated when John threw the window open and let in the crisp, rain-washed breezes.

"The city smells alive," John remarked as he clambered up on the windowsill to get a better view.

Paul, busily emptying his little suitcase and storing his few possessions neatly in the cupboard, simply smiled in agreement. He was a bit road-weary, particularly from having to do all the polite chit-chat with the drivers who'd been kind enough to give them lifts, but his heart had not been so light in years.

John had chosen him. Not Cynthia, not Stuart, but Paul. And, amazingly, Paul's father had acquiesced to the trip with fewer dire predictions than anyone could have anticipated. He'd even pressed ten quid into his son's hands, "just in case."

It was, Paul thought as he turned his suitcase on end to use as a night table, probably a sign that something was about to go terribly wrong.

"Hey there." John's voice broke through Paul's musings. "Quit being a housewife for a few minutes and look at this." John beckoned toward the window. It wasn't large enough to seat them both, so Paul settled for peering over John's shoulders at the narrow streets below. It wasn't a grand part of town, of course, but it had a certain shabby charm that absolutely failed to remind him of Hamburg in any way, shape, or form.

Score one for Paris, then.

Squirming a bit on the hard ledge, John stuffed his glasses back in his jacket and turned to Paul. "What should we seek out first - food or booze?"

"Food. Absolutely, food." Paul's words were punctuated by a loud rumble in his stomach.

John's laughter was intoxicating. He hopped down and mussed Paul's hair. "Can't deprive a growing boy, now, can we? Let's take a walk."

Following John was as natural as breathing. Paul patted his pockets, reassuring himself that he had both his camera and his wallet, as he strode quickly to keep up with John's long-legged gait. The scenery was so interesting that John was actually wearing his glasses. Looking around him swallowed up all Paul's attention, resulting in his foot slipping on one of the damp cobblestones. John reacted quickly, wrapping an arm around Paul's waist and steadying him. "Watch your step - can't have you breaking an ankle, now, can we?"

"I'm not a fucking racehorse," Paul grumbled, but the warmth of John's body next to his was a solid, comforting familiarity in a strange place.

They wandered aimlessly through the twisting streets until the scent of freshly-baked bread seduced them into a cozy boulangerie. Proud to show off his French, Paul ordered bread and tea for them both and reached for his wallet to pay. John stopped him with a firm hand on Paul's wrist.

"Nope, I'm buying," he declared as he handed francs to the old woman behind the counter.

"But I have money," protested Paul.

"And now you have food and you still have money. It's a miracle!" John reached to take his change from the woman, and Paul saw him pull a face.

"What?" Paul whispered, but John shushed him. The boys took their food and cups of tea and went to a vacant table by the window.

"She has Mickey Mouse hands," John stage-whispered when they were settled.

Paul gaped blankly at him.

John held up his hands and tucked his index fingers behind his thumbs. "Only four fingers on each hand. No, don't turn around, you numpty!"

Paul stopped himself. "That's weird," he said before taking a huge bite out of his bread. It was hot with a perfectly crisp crust, the inside so soft and flaky that adding butter would be a desecration.

Evidently John felt the same, because he managed to smile blissfully whilst chewing.

Their repast wasn't going to last long at this rate, so Paul concentrated on his tea and broke off only one tiny piece of bread at a time. He gazed out the window at the pedestrians and pigeons, none of whom seemed to be in a hurry.

He liked that very much.

After a few minutes, Paul examined the interior of the shop. Glass cases displayed every kind of sweet and savory baked good he'd ever seen and quite a few that were mysteries to him. Half a dozen tables, draped with mismatched, spotless cotton cloths, dotted the floor. But what drew Paul's attention was the mahogany spinet in the corner.

His fingers twitched. He'd gone two days already without touching an instrument - he had grudgingly consented to John's demand that they leave their guitars at home - and he longed to make the lovely, lonely instrument sing for him.

John followed Paul's line of sight. He shook his head in mock exasperation. "Honestly, are you conisdering cheating on your guitar with that tart of a piano?"

Paul, whose body was almost aching with the need for music, chose to shoot the bird at John rather than give a verbal response.

Leaning forward in his chair, John snatched the last of the bread from Paul's plate with a triumphant grin. "Hey!" protested Paul, "I wasn't finished yet!"

"You know what they say: if you eat slowly, you eat less." John tore the morsel in half and brought one piece to Paul's lips.

Paul considered nipping the finger along with the bread, but literally biting the hand that fed him seemed ridiculous. He sighed as he allowed John to pop the bread in his mouth, his gaze still focused on the piano.

"We couldn't very well bring both guitars along, and we can't share, now, can we, since you need yours upside-down?"

It shouldn't have stunned Paul that John was reading his mind. It happened far too frequently to have any element of surprise left, yet every time they finished one another's thoughts, Paul felt a tiny jolt like an electrical charge.

The same charge went through him whenever John touched him, as he did now when he leaned forward to flick a crumb from the corner of Paul's downturned mouth. "Are you still hungry?" John asked.

"No," Paul lied, but the hesitation in his voice didn't fool John at all.

"Let's get you something else," he offered.

"I'm not hungry."

"Rubbish. And if I take you back to England looking like a starving waif, your dad will have my guts for garters!"

"John, I'm fine, really, just let me finish the tea and--"

Out of the corner of his eye Paul saw a plate with four piping-hot croissants being set on their table. He realized that he was looking directly at the old woman's deformed hand, then averted his gaze with a guilty start and began to sputter. " _Ce ne sont_ , uh, _pas_ , uh, _le nôtre...n'avons_ , uh, _pas d'argent_..."

"I speak English," the woman said kindly, circumventing the need for Paul's schoolboy French. Her voice was accented in a language Paul didn't recognize. "Please, they are old and must not go to waste."

Paul opened his mouth to protest - the food was clearly fresh from the oven - but John interrupted. "That's very nice, thank you." His voice was soft, free from jest or sarcasm, which left Paul as curious as he was ravenous.

When the woman smiled, Paul was surprised to realize that she wasn't as old as she seemed. She was probably in her early forties; her prematurely gray hair and the scars on her hands had been deceptive. Paul could see that John was not looking at her face but her arm, and when he glanced over he could see some crudely tattooed numbers just below the crook of her elbow.

When John kicked his ankle under the table and made a "you're embarrassing me" face, Paul realized that he was staring. He forced his gaze upward again and said, " _Merci_ \- thank you very much" as the woman walked away.

Unusually sober-faced, John sat utterly still for several moments, not touching the food but regarding it with a strangely abstracted expression. "What?" asked Paul around a mouthful of croissant.

"You saw it," was John's terse answer, and Paul knew he meant the tattoo rather than the scarring. "I've heard about them, but I've never seen one. Shit." John ran his hands through his hair until it nearly stood on end. "Jesus, that's just wrong."

Paul turned the words over in his mind for a few moments before the realization dawned. They'd been numbered with tattoos in concentration camps, the Jews and everyone else Hitler had wanted to kill. "So she's..."

"Yeah."

Paul's chest felt tight. He struggled to swallow, washing the food down with a gulp of the cooling tea. He'd heard his relatives talk in horrified whispers, their voices kept low "to spare the children," but it had never seemed real to him. To boys his age, the war was a dim memory, kept alive by the shadows of rationing and poverty that were only now beginning to lift.

"And I thought it was a drag that we couldn't get sugar," John said, completing Paul's thoughts yet again. He picked up a croissant and began to eat it. "We've led pretty charmed lives by comparison, haven't we?"

"I'd never thought of it that way." Paul knew he sounded as dazed as he felt. His life hadn't felt charmed, not since his mother's illness and death followed by his family's slide toward impoverished gentility, and he certainly wouldn't describe John's life that way. But compared to this woman and the story they'd only seen on the surface, Paul and John were princes of the realm.

They finished their food, rising to thank the woman - the lady, Paul corrected himself in his head - before setting out to find enough cheap red wine to keep them merrily tipsy for the rest of the evening. John procured two bottles from a nearby shop and handed one to Paul.

"What should we do tomorrow?" John asked.

Paul, who wanted to "see the sights" without knowing exactly what they were, shrugged. "Up to you. It's your birthday party, you know."

"Best birthday ever, and I haven't even had it yet," John said with a wide smile. "There are bohemian delights galore here, and wine to drink our health with. What else could two young, adventuresome lads ask for?"

"A girl who won't give me the clap," Paul said archly. The rest of the group had never, ever let him hear the end of the Hamburg debacle so he tended to bring it up himself to lessen the painful inevitability.

The sparkle in John's eyes dimmed somewhat. Surprised, Paul raised an eyebrow at him but John turned away and was silent for the rest of the walk back to their hotel.

They climbed the narrow, dark staircase and opened the door to their room. John had left the window slightly open to freshen the air, and now the room was far cooler than Paul could have wished. He shivered a bit and drew his jacket more tightly around himself. "Mind if I shut the window? Getting a bit brisk in here."

"Be my guest," John said in a listless tone as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

Paul had no idea how in the world he could have offended his mercurial friend, but he knew better than to ask. He closed the window gently instead, then he took a seat next to John and slung one arm around his shoulders. "I know I'm your guest, and don't think for a moment that I'm not grateful, 'cause I really, really am."

John blinked at him a few times, then shook himself from head to toe like a dog emerging from a puddle. "Sorry, I'm just knackered. Don't mind me." He set his bottle of wine on the floor next to the bed. "I'll save it for tomorrow, I think. Gonna turn in, maybe get an early start in the morning."

Despite residual anxiety about John's changing moods, Paul got to his feet and went to the cupboard to get his pyjamas. He changed quickly, shivering with the cold. In his peripheral vision he could see John doing the same and then rushing to the sink to clean his teeth. Paul followed suit, taking care to wash his face carefully as well. It wouldn't do to get a pimple during such a grown-up adventure.

By the time he finished, John had rearranged the covers and pillows on the bed to make one little nest for each of them. Top-and-tail. John surveyed his handiwork with a frown. "I've seen bigger postage stamps. I'm liable to get your foot in my face all night long, smelling of God knows what."

"My feet are daisies compared to yours." Paul knew that his new-found devotion to hygeine was the laughingstock of his bandmates, so he used it to toss a bone to John, to get him to laugh.

It worked. John's sour face crumbled and he favored Paul with a genuine smile as he snuggled down under the covers. "Night, then."

"Good night, Johnny." Paul crawled into his little space and twisted around, trying to find a comfortable position that didn't encroach on John's area. Given that they were two long-legged boys trying to share one narrow bed, his efforts met with no success. Every time he drifted off, a bony ankle would connect sharply with his ear, or he'd feel John swat at his shins.

It was also cold, far colder than Paul had expected, and he began to shiver.

He felt a shift in the bed and bedclothes. When he opened his eyes, there was John, leaning over him. "Best come up here with me," John said, a little quickly, adding, "There's only one proper blanket anyway, and it's too cold in here to fuss about your modesty."

Relieved that he might actually get some sleep, Paul moved his pillow next to John's and curled up on his side with John behind him. John was always a few degrees warmer than most people, so he was like a living, breathing hot water bottle, albeit one with pointy elbows. As Paul relaxed into slumber, he was dimly aware of John tucking the bedspread around him and whispering something into his ear that was too soft to understand.

***


	2. Chapter 2

Paul had a good ear.

That's what he called it, himself: good. Other people had different names for the way Paul heard not just music, but all sounds.

 _Incredible_ was John's word; Paul's dad called it _brilliant_. George, who didn't care for hyperbole, said it was _dead useful_.

Stuart called it _bloody, fucking annoying shit_ , which was part of the reason Paul couldn't stand to be in the same room with him. The other reasons didn't bear thinking about, because they mostly had to do with John. But John hadn't chosen Stuart for this journey, he'd taken Paul as his companion to Paris.

Paris.

Paris was doing its level best to wake Paul up from a sound sleep. He could hear all of the individual car engines - Citroens, mostly, with the occasional Renault Dauphin. A street vendor was announcing her wares, singing C-F-G-A-G-F, with the last F going slightly flat every time. Someone was sweeping the front steps of their hotel in a ragged 4/4 beat.

Those were the outside noises. There was another sound, from inside the room, that Paul recognized as the ascending pitches of John's voice as he masturbated, and that was the sound that finally pulled Paul into full wakefulness.

"For Christ's sake, John," he grumbled, pulling his thin pillow over his ears in an unsuccessful attempt to drown out the sound of John's impending orgasm.

"Sorry," gasped John in between groans. "Tried to be quiet."

"Failed to be quiet." Paul didn't want to turn over, didn't want to see John's cheeks stained red with exertion, and absolutely didn't want to see his hands covered with...no, he wasn't going to think about that. He'd seen, heard, smelled, and - God help him - participated in enough of that in Hamburg.

Moments later, the room was quiet again save for the rapid tempo of John's breathing as he relaxed. Paul curled up tightly against the chilly morning air and tried to concentrate on anything other than what was happening behind him.

John got out of bed and stretched - Paul could hear his knuckles crack as he brought his hands over his head - and moments later the water in the shower began to run. Thank God that's over, Paul thought, rolling over on his back with his arm over his eyes to keep out the amber sunlight.

He must have fallen asleep again, because the next thing he knew, John was sitting on the bed and pulling his boots on. He was in the middle of a running commentary about something Paul had slept through.

"...and the Eiffel Tower's a bit touristy but we've got to get a photo or two, don't you think?"

Paul replied muzzily with a predictable non-sequitur. "Time's it?"

John flicked his wet towel at Paul's head. "It's gone half nine and you're still asleep, thou sluggard. C'mon, Paris awaits us!"

"All right, all right, give us a minute." Paul forced his eyes open and rolled out of bed. He grabbed his trousers and sniffed them - still good for one more day, but only just - and pulled a shirt and underwear out of the cupboard. He realized that John was standing not far behind him, so he looked over his shoulder and asked, "See something you like, then?"

To Paul's astonishment, John's face flushed for a moment before he looked down at the floor. "Nothing I've not seen before, so your beauty leaves me unaffected. Get dressed, son, no one's going to assault your honour."

"I didn't mean--" Paul started, but John had already opened the door to their room and began striding purposefully into the hallway.

"Shit, ah, shit," Paul mumbled as he flung on his clothes. He saw John's glasses lying on the bed and grabbed them, not even bothering to slick back his hair before bolting downstairs in search of John. By the time he was on the street, panting a little from running, John was nowhere to be seen.

Where had the stupid sod gone, and why was he in such a mood?

John's glasses were heavy and hard in Paul's hand. Even if John had a destination he was unlikely to find it, given his terrible eyesight. Exasperation and affection fluttered, birdlike, around Paul's brain as he took off in an attempt to retrace their steps from the previous evening.

He passed little _pensions_ , flower and vegetable stalls, bookstores, even a music shop where guitars hung like sugarplums in a child's dreamscape. Nothing caught his eye until he saw the back of a tall, brown-haired man in leather trousers. Relieved and irritated in equal measure, Paul wrapped his arms around John's waist, turned him around, and cried, "Don't DO stuff like that, you scared me to death!"

" _Pardon_ ," said a very surprised man who was definitely not John.

"Oh! Oh, God!" Paul slapped himself on the forehead, nearly bruising himself with John's glasses. "I'm so-- _pardon_ , I, uh, _je pensais que_ , uh, _vous étiez_ , uh..."

" _Pas de problème,_ " said not-John, laughing as he straightened his rumpled clothing.

Paul, certain that Death By Humiliation was now a distinct possibility, took off running. He cursed himself, the day he was born, the day he agreed to go to stupid Paris with STUPID, STUPID John Lennon, and John Lennon himself.

He paused on a street corner, leaning over with his hands on his thighs as he tried to catch his breath. This wasn't working. He'd never find John at this rate, so his best bet was to go back to the room and wait for him there.

Once his heart stopped thundering, Paul realized that he was terribly hungry. He checked his pockets. His wallet was still in last night's trousers, so at least something was going to go well today. After a moment to get his bearings, he decided to head back to the bakery from yesterday and get something to eat.

The cafe was busier today. All the tables were full. The scent of warm bread enticed Paul, but what made him stop in his tracks was what he heard.

John's voice.

Singing.

He was performing _a capella_ , his voice a little reedy but filled with such earnestness that it was no wonder that everyone in the little shop was turned raptly toward him.

_Take good care of my baby,_  
_Now don't you ever make her cry._  
_Just let your love surround her,_  
_Paint a rainbow all around her,  
_ _Don't let her see a cloudy sky._

Paul peered over the crowd and saw the back of John's head. He came closer, almost touching him, and joined in the middle eight with a soaring harmony.

_Once upon a time, that little girl was mine.  
_ _If I'd been true, I know she'd never be with you._

John never missed a beat and didn't turn around, but Paul could see his shoulders relax at the sound of Paul's voice. Paul came closer, nearly resting his chin on the crown of John's head.

 _Take good care of my baby,_  
_Be just as kind as you can be._  
_And if you should discover_  
_That you don't really love her,  
__Just send my baby back home to me._  

The patrons' applause was loud and appreciative. Money appeared at John's feet, coins and bills, and all around the duo were cries of " _fantastique_!" and " _formidable_!"

Paul wasn't listening to the commotion. He put his hands on John's shoulders, feeling a strong sense of relief when John leaned back against him and looked up at him with a sheepish smile.

"I forgot my wallet and had to sing for my supper. Or busk for my breakfast, more like."

"Daft boy," Paul murmured.

John pulled away from Paul and scooped up a handful of the money. "Sylvie!" he called.

"Who's Sylvie?" Paul asked, then he realized that John was speaking to the lady who had been so nice to them last night.

"There, you see?" she said as she came over and kissed John on both cheeks. "I told you he would find you, and here he is!"

"Sylvie, this is Paul. Paul, Sylvie."

Paul reached out to shake her hand and forced himself not to look down at it. She drew him close and kissed his cheeks as she had John's. " _Sheyn eyngel_. Beautiful boy. And what a lovely voice!"

"Paul's dead amazing at everything he does," John pronounced, and Paul's heart skipped a beat at the praise. "He plays the guitar and the piano, and he writes great songs--"

"You do, too," added Paul, feeling himself start to blush.

Sylvie beamed at them. "I will fix you an English breakfast. Fatten you up a little." She bustled off, stopping at another table to take an order before heading for the kitchen.

Paul watched John stack the money on the table. "John?"

"Hmm?"

"When you were singing, just now - why didn't you play it on the piano? I've heard you do that one; you know all the chords."

John stilled his fingers but didn't meet Paul's eyes. "You saw the piano first. I wanted you to play it before I did. Go on, you know you're keen to try it out."

Paul was keen indeed, and he didn't hesitate to approach the instrument, but his mind was still swirling with half-formed questions and ideas. He sat down on the bench and placed his fingers on the old ivory keys. They were well worn but meticulously clean. For several moments he debated what to play, then just started random chord progressions.

It was a nice instrument, far better than the one in his parlor. Playing on it gave Paul the first carefree moments he'd had since John had bolted earlier that morning. He smiled to himself as he slid into the opening of "Money," which was one of John's favorites.

Almost instantly John flung himself onto the piano bench alongside Paul, singing along and tickling Paul's ear with some of the francs he was clutching. Whatever tensions they had experienced in the morning trickled away as Paul accompanied John's soulful vocals. The closing chord was met with more riotous applause.

When Paul turned to John to ask what they should perform next, he noticed an expression in John's dark eyes that he had been seeing more and more in the last few weeks. It wasn't the way their girl fans looked at him, not even the way Dot gazed at him when they were together. There was something hesitant, almost tender, in John's countenance that was at odds with his usual brash fearlessness.

Then John smiled at him, fondly and proudly, and Paul felt warmth expanding inside himself. "You do something on your own, Paulie," John said as he rose and gave Paul's arm an encouraging nudge. "Sing 'em a love song."

Paul would have composed an opera on the spot if John had asked him.

He hesitated for a moment, thinking, then decided to play one of his own songs and began "P.S., I Love You." When John didn't chime in on the first words of each line as he usually did, Paul almost fumbled. He recovered his stage presence quickly, and then his hands caressed the keys almost of their own volition and his voice rang out clear and strong.

There was a moment's silence as the last notes died out, and for a horrible instant Paul thought he had bombed. Then the applause began, just as strongly as before, and when he dared to turn around Paul saw that most of the patrons were on their feet.

For him.

At his side, John was grinning like a madman, seemingly as pleased for Paul as he would have been for himself. Paul took a showman's bow and was about to sit down to play again when the aroma of sausages reminded him how hungry he was.

Sylvie was laying out a feast that almost brought tears to Paul's and John's eyes: eggs, sausages, even beans on toast, with a steaming pot of tea in the center of their table. The two boys almost tripped over each other in their eagerness to enjoy the food. Paul reached the table first, scarcely remembering his manners enough to quickly thank Sylvie. John hugged her before taking his own seat, then there was silence while they took advantage of their first hot meal since leaving Liverpool. 

They heard a light giggle. Sylvie was taking a seat at their table as she wiped her hands on her apron. "I'm glad you have such a good appetite. And so much talent, you two. Your mothers must be very proud." 

John froze, ashen-faced, with a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth. Paul felt the familiar icy stab of loss but recovered faster than John, just as he always did. "We don't...that is, my mother died when I was fourteen, and John lost his a couple of years ago." 

Sylvie's dark brown eyes filled with tears that she quickly wiped away with a mangled hand. "I'm sorry," she said gently. "I, too, understand sorrow." 

Paul stared John down until he started eating again and color came back to his face, then he turned to Sylvie and said, "Your piano is wonderful. Thank you for letting me play." 

"It makes me glad to hear someone perform on it. It's mine, from when I was a student at the _Lycée_ , before the war, but now..." She looked down at her scarred hands, then back up at Paul. 

"But...but you're not French," John stammered, trying to cover up the question he really intended to ask. 

"No, I am from Prague. Do you know Prague?" John and Paul shook their heads. "It is a beautiful city. You should go there sometime. So, tell me, what made you two come to Paris? Are you reinventing yourselves?" 

Paul hadn't thought of it that way, but John nodded his head enthusiastically. "We're only here for a few days," he said after swallowing another huge mouthful of food. "Originally we planned to go to Spain, but this--" he gestured in a large circle with his fork. "Paris is exactly where I want to be right now. Where we want to be." 

"Then finish here and go out. Walk around the city. Take pictures of one another. Be silly and young." Her face darkened for a moment, then she stood up and patted each of them on the head. "And eat here, whenever you are hungry. I cannot bear to see skinny boys like you!" 

Before they could thank her again, Sylvie was gone. John pointed at Paul's half-empty plate. "You heard her, eat up. We have a city to see today!" 

Paul shoveled down the rest of his breakfast while John left a pile of francs on the table. "Quick, before she sees the money and tries to give it back," John instructed as he rose and shrugged into his jacket. They peered around the cafe, waiting until Sylvie was no longer in sight, then dashed out the door into the waiting arms of Paris. 

Nourished in body, they spent the rest of the day feeding their curious souls. They saw schoolboys scarcely younger than themselves walking along with their arms linked as they chattered away, so John took Paul's arm and they wandered around the strange, beautiful city together. Paul took photos of John at a market stall, in front of the Eiffel Tower, staring down a lonely street.

Eventually their thin-soled boots made their feet ache and they reluctantly made their way back to their room. Paul felt a little shiver of embarrassment when he recalled the events of that morning. He glanced at John, who was staring at him, pensively, with That Look in his eyes again. 

"John?" Paul asked, sitting on the bed and patting the place next to him as he slipped his jacket from his shoulders. "What's going on, are you okay?" 

"Yes. I mean, no, not really." The breath he took was audibly shaky. "Listen, Paul, we have to talk about something." 

It wasn't like John to be nervous, so seeing him shift his weight from foot to foot filled Paul with anxiety. Hideous possibilities flashed through his mind. 

_Paul, I need to break up the group._  
_Paul, I need to tell you that the guys want you out of The Beatles.  
_ _Paul, I need you to leave me to write songs by myself._

When John continued , his voice strained and uncertain, with "Paul, I need..." Paul felt his eyes well up with hot tears. He wanted to scream, to jump out of the window, anything to keep John from finishing the sentence. 

"...you." 

Paul's mouth dropped open. He gawped at John. "I'm...right here," he finally managed to say, dazed, uncomprehending.

John rose on the balls of his feet and tugged at the hair that had fallen across his forehead. "I know that," he said with a put-upon sigh. "Christ, why does this have to be so fucking hard?" He took a few steps closer to Paul and timidly put his hand on Paul's cheek. "I've been over this and over this in my mind, and I can't say it any other way: I love you."

Paul wondered if he could be suffering a heart attack, the pain in his chest was so acute. "But...but Cynthia...I thought..." He swallowed hard, remembering the times when he and John had traded long, lazy hand jobs, and how unhappy it made him when he'd seen John and Stuart doing the same.

Jealousy. Not of Stuart's position in the band - God only knew why John had insisted on putting a bass in such incompetent hands - but of what Stuart was to John.

"Stuart," he whispered, then put his hand over his mouth when he realized he'd said the name aloud. 

"You're different." John knelt in front of Paul and gazed directly into his eyes. His expression was so sincere, so hopeful, that Paul found it difficult to breathe. "You're not Cynthia, and you're not Stu." He grasped Paul's hands in his, squeezing tightly. "I don't completely understand it, either, but I do, Paul, I do really love you. That's why we're here. I couldn't bring myself to tell you back in Liverpool, but here..." 

For the first time in his life, Paul cursed his _good,_ _incredible, brilliant_ ear. John's pained breaths and his earnestly pleading voice sliced through Paul's heart like a scalpel. He looked down at their joined hands, then up at John's shining eyes, and he did the first thing that raced through his jumbled mind. 

He ran away. 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Take Good Care of My Baby" - music and lyrics by Gerry Goffin and Carole King


	3. Chapter 3

Paul was no stranger to panic. From the time he realized that his mother's death was inevitable, panic's looming spectre was never more than a breath away, ghostlike, almost invisible but always ready to strike.

But for as often as he had felt the icy hand of dread clutching at his chest, he had never learned to cope. He would freeze, or say something awful that he didn't really mean, or run away altogether. In every other aspect of his life he was meticulous to a fault, but in any situation where he lost control, he became a vortex of appalling ideas and worse executions.

As he dashed down the unfamiliar streets, heedless of where he was going, Paul knew that he was in terrible trouble. Of course, a cold autumn rain had begun to fall and he had left his jacket at the hotel. Of course, he had never changed his pounds to francs and the darkening sky told him that there wouldn't be a bank open until tomorrow. Of course, he had no map of the city, no plan, and he had come to realize that his study of French wasn't going to help him unless he needed to announce that his aunt's pen was on his uncle's table.

He was completely screwed.

Everything that could help him, everything he needed, was in the hotel room that he'd fled: his clothes, his passport, even the camera that held the precious images from this trip.

Images of John.

John, who loved him.

Oh, Paul was completely screwed, all right.

He shook his head as if that could help him shake off all thoughts of John. He realized that his hair was dripping wet, droplets of rain scattering from the strands. His clothing was soaked, and his hands were so cold that he could scarcely feel his fingers.

Yes, running away was a brilliant idea. He thought he was running away from John, but how could he, when his whole being was consumed by him, when he could scarcely remember a time when John's approval wasn't the most important thing in his life?

Church bells began to toll for the evening mass. Each peal sang out to him. _John, John, John_. Paul began to laugh hysterically, clutching his chest as he continued to run.

Exhausted and half-frozen, Paul veered off his aimless course and instead followed a family into a small Catholic church. People who were smarter than he was, less panic-stricken, less phenomenally screwed, placed their umbrellas neatly in the vestibule. Paul stood in a corner and tried to wring some of the water out of his clothes. French mothers clucked sympathetically at him while their children stared and giggled. Finally a verger approached him with a blanket, which Paul gratefully draped over his head and his shaking shoulders.

He took a seat at the very back and rested his damp head against the wall. Candles flickered all around, casting a golden glow on the old stone walls. There was a residual scent of incense in the air from a hundred years or more of worship.

_Bells and smells._

Even here, even now, John's voice wouldn't leave him alone.

Paul listened half-heartedly to the Latin liturgy. The service was vaguely familiar, on the edge of a childhood memory, but since his mother's death he hadn't followed a faith. In fact, the last time he'd entered any church was for Julia Lennon's funeral three years ago.

John's face at the wake afterwards, stricken and pale, was seared into Paul's memory.

He tried and failed to pay attention to what was going on around him, tried and failed to think of something that wasn't John, that was bigger, more important than John. When he rose and tried to sing along with the congregation, he was horrified to discover that his voice didn't work.

There was no more music in him.

With a muted cry, Paul stood up and lurched out of the church and back into the street. The blanket gave him little shelter from the pelting rain but he was long past caring. He wondered if throwing himself under a nearby bus would hurt in the seconds before it killed him, then he chastised himself for thinking of "doing that to John," then he started to cry when he realized, yet again, that John would never let him go.

Bedraggled and weeping, his mind a chaotic tangle of dangerous thoughts, Paul wandered slowly through the shadowy, rain-slicked city. He could have been anywhere, for all he knew. He was tired. So tired.

But he was not lost, after all. He found himself, somehow, at the front door of Sylvie's little cafe - for all the good it would do him, he realized, when he saw that the lights were turned out and the door was locked.

He also realized that he had a companion, a pink-nosed, gray tabby cat who looked as unhappily wet as Paul himself. He leaned over and scratched the cat under the chin. "Are you lost, too?" he asked.

The cat regarded him with its round, golden eyes, then trotted off around the corner of the building. Paul was desperately tired and hungry, hungry enough to wonder if perhaps Sylvie had placed leftover food on the trash cans in the alley. He followed the cat and found himself face to face with Sylvie as she was locking the back door.

"My God, where have you been!" she cried when she saw Paul's disheveled appearance. Immediately she turned the key in the lock and pushed Paul into the kitchen, the cat at his heels.

"John came here, looking for you," Sylvie continued as she flung several large kitchen towels at Paul. "He was frantic."

"I was, too," Paul said quietly as he tried to dry his hair.

Sylvie pulled a chair near the oven, shoved Paul into it, and lit the burner under a kettle. "Tea. And you need to call the hotel and let John know you are all right."

"There's no phone. It's not...that nice of a place."

She shot Paul an exasperated glance, then her face softened when she saw the cat. "Ah, Monsieur Debussy, you are gracing us with your presence this evening."

"He's yours?"

"Is a cat really ever anyone's?"

Paul shook his head, watching as Sylvie got a bit of fish out of the refrigerator and put it on a sheet of waxed paper for Debussy. The cat sniffed Sylvie's fingers then nibbled daintily at the morsels. Paul was so famished that he considered fighting for the chance to eat the fish himself, but before he could finish the thought Sylvie handed him a sandwich.

As ravenous as Paul was, he found he couldn't bring himself to take a bite until he asked, "Is John all right?"

Sylvie was pouring hot water into a teapot, but Paul could still see a flash of annoyance in her eyes. "He declared his love for you and you ran away. So, _sheyn_   _eyngel_ , here is the answer to your question. He is as exactly as 'all right' as you are."

Paul reflected on that statement. He was out of breath, starving, soaked to the skin, and - again, to his surprise and mortification - in tears.

So, not all right.

"He was out of his mind with worry, your John," Sylvie declared. "He was terrified that something happened to you. Think about how much he must love you, Paul."

Of all the things he could have said next, "But I'm not queer," was the least helpful. He then heaped coal on the fire by adding, "I have a girlfriend."

Sylvie shook her head. "I have a teapot, but that doesn't mean I don't also like coffee."

"It's not the same thing!" Paul's offended tone was marred by a sudden coughing fit.

Sylvie took the untouched sandwich and replaced it with a mug of hot tea. Paul recoiled involuntarily at the touch of her scarred hands on his unmarred ones, then he blushed furiously as fresh, embarrassed tears rolled down his face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." he began.

"Let me tell you how it happened," Sylvie said, cutting him off. She pulled a chair in front of his and leaned toward him. "I was born in Prague. My name was Sarah, then. We were moved into the Jewish ghetto when I was young, but I was given permission to take piano lessons in the main part of the city. When I was nineteen, my parents sent me here, to Paris, to continue my studies. I met a young pianist named Sebastian, and we fell in love."

Paul opened his mouth to mention that he, also, was nineteen, but managed to stop himself.

"In the summer of 1941 we went back to Prague to see my parents. We were...taken. We were rounded up and sent to Terezín. The Germans called it Theresienstadt."

Paul cocked his head. "I've never heard of it."

"Most people did not. It was a 'model' camp, a place the Germans showed the Red Cross to pretend that they had taken such good care of us. They brought in the people who had most recently been free, those of us still in good health. 'Look at the schools, the baths, the square in the center of the town,' they said, but it was all a...a false thing, how do you call it?"

"Façade?"

"Yes. I was part of that façade because I had just arrived when an 'inspection' was due to take place. They told me to play the piano as background music. I did, and I was singing in French, but what I was singing to the Red Cross was that my boyfriend wasn't Jewish and shouldn't be held here. One of the SS officers understood French."

"Did they release Sebastian?" Paul asked, already afraid of the answer.

Sylvie turned away, her unfocused gaze facing the stove. "Later that night, the guards came for me. They took me to a cell in the back of the camp and they told me they knew what I'd done. Then they said they would let Sebastian go if I gave them something in return." She held up her left hand. "They gave me the choice - a finger on the left hand, or a finger on the right. I chose left thinking I could still play if they let my right hand alone."

Paul was queasy and knew his face must be as white as the tiles on the floor, but he forced himself to look at Sylvia as she continued.

"They took a round tool and snapped my finger off. It bled - oh, how it bled, and I tried not to scream because I knew it was worth it to keep Sebastian alive. The man who cut it off sewed up the stump and I thought, well, at least it is all over." She paused and held up her right hand. "Then he took the other finger as well."

"Why?" Paul asked, his mouth dry.

Sylvie shrugged. "Because they wanted to? Because they were showing me that there were really no choices in that place?" She put her hands at her sides. "I lost my music that night, and I thought it was the worst thing that could possibly happen to me. But I was wrong, so, so wrong." She took a deep breath. "They kept me in the cell overnight, no food or water, only checking on me once to make sure I hadn't bled to death. Then in the morning they took me through the yard. And they were lying there - my mother and father, my sister, and Sebastian. All shot through the head, their bodies left out for me to see. And on top of them, the bloody stumps of my poor fingers."

Paul dropped the mug of tea to the floor, hot liquid splashing against his cold, damp ankles. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed. He heard Sylvie get up and felt her arm go around him.

"But I survived, darling boy," she soothed. "I survived."

"How...how do you do it?" Paul lifted his face, his eyes aching with the red-hot tears he had been shedding. "How can you stand having the piano in here, when it's a reminder of everything you lost?"

Sylvie beckoned him into the dining room of the cafe and motioned him to sit on the piano bench. She put a piece of music in front of him, something by Rachmaninoff, but Paul shook his head. "I can't read it," he stammered, shamefaced.

"Never mind. Just play from your heart."

Paul played a fragment of melody that had been haunting him for a while, then added chords. Every time his index fingers pressed a key, he felt a stab of sorrow run through him that only John would understand. Losing John would be like losing music, like losing the part of himself that created the music.

"It would only be inside of me," he murmured as he ended with a soft cadence. "I'd need other people to make the music for me."

"And that's why I keep the piano," Sylvie said gently. She lifted an eyebrow at Paul and smiled. "I came back to Paris and gave myself a new name, a new life. Paris is a wonderful place to discover yourself, no?"

Paul nodded. He stood up, his wet boots squelching on the floor, and hugged Sylvie. She patted his head, squeezed his shoulders, then playfully pushed him away. "It's stopped raining. I'll pack up some food for you to take back to the hotel." With a fond glance, she stroked the keyboard. "I think it was waiting for you. Just like John is."

Stunned, his mind whirling, Paul watched Sylvie load up a paper sack with a dozen different pastries. She handed it to him and stood on tiptoe to kiss his temple.

"Remember - the only thing that matters, is love."

Wet as he was, he flung his arms around her and kissed her cheek. He stooped over to give Debussy a farewell pat, then he took off in what he hoped was the direction of the hotel.

A few wrong turns later, Paul found himself at the front door of the hotel. He bounded up the stairs two at a time, terrified that he might be too late. And for the first time in years, he was praying.

 _Please, don't let him be gone._  
_I don't know what I'd do._  
_Please._

He flung open the door and saw John lying in the bed, sound asleep, with two empty wine bottles perched precariously on Paul's upended suitcase.

Paul dropped the bag on the windowsill and fumbled in the cupboard until he found his camera. He removed the lenscap, acutely aware of his index fingers as they moved, and focused on John's peaceful face.

No matter what happened next, he was going to be able to keep this moment.

The sound of the shutter wakened John. He blinked nearsightedly. "Paul?" he asked, his voice as tentative as Paul had ever heard it.

"Yeah. It's me." Paul climbed on the bed and dug under the covers to find John's hands, John's precious, beautiful hands, and he held them tightly.

They stared dumbly at one another until Paul gathered his courage to speak.

"Johnny, we need to settle this."

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sylvie's story is taken verbatim from the experiences of a childhood friend's mother. Only the names were changed.


	4. Chapter 4

"Well, for starters, you need to get off of the bed."

Of all the things John might have said to him, Paul hadn't expected this. The sense of panic started in him again, short-circuiting his brain and making his heart beat far, far too quickly. He jumped up and turned away, hoping to hide the flush of humiliation that was burning his cheeks.

John wanted him gone. He needed to pack. He needed to figure out how to hitchhike to Calais and still have enough money for the ferry back. And how in the hell would he get back to Liverpool, all alone?

Alone. Oh, God, alone. 

With trembling hands, Paul moved John's wine bottles off his suitcase and prepared to turn it over. The shuddering became so violent that he ended up knocking the case over onto his own foot. He let out an undignified yelp of pain, then completely disgraced himself by standing still with his face buried in his hands as he unsuccessfully fought back sobs. 

"No, no, you git. C'mere." John was by his side, wrapping a bath towel around his shaking arms. "I just meant you were dripping all over the bed. Calm down, Paulie, it's okay, it's okay."   
  
Paul felt like an idiot: the luckiest, best-loved idiot on Earth. He half-fell into John's waiting arms.

"Wet things. Off. Now." John said into Paul's ear. He gave Paul a playful shove in the chest. "If you catch your death, I'll never hear the end of it." 

Paul, nearly boneless with overjoyed delerium, allowed John to undress him like a doll. John had to kneel in order to get the waterlogged leather trousers down Paul's slim legs. His fingers hesitated at the waistband of Paul's underpants, and his expression was almost shy. Paul mouthed "yes" at him. 

John took off the last of Paul's clothing, sat back on his heels and gazed up at him. "Good God, you're a work of art," he whispered. 

"It's not as if we haven't seen each other naked before," Paul commented, finally noticing that John was also nude. 

"It didn't MATTER, before." John tugged at Paul's hands until they were kneeling in front of one another, their hands still joined, staring into each other's eyes in wonder. "I was so scared when you ran off," John said, so softly that Paul had to strain to hear it.

"I'm sorry," Paul murmured. "I was scared, too. I didn't...I didn't know, or I hadn't let myself think about it. Once I realized, though, I had to come back, I had to find you." 

John nodded. Never taking his gaze from Paul's face, he slid one hand up Paul's chest to the long column of his throat, then to his chin, finally resting on his cheek. John usually just took what he wanted, but now he was asking, and Paul's heart overflowed with delight. 

Paul leaned forward, twisted his fingers in John's hair, and kissed him with all the hungry ferocity of his nineteen years. 

When they parted, astonished and a little out of breath, Paul realized that he had managed to render John Lennon speechless. John was simply staring at him, his beautiful eyes radiant with an inner light, and Paul fell in love with him again a hundred more times. 

Emboldened, Paul stood up and held out his hand to John. John turned Paul's hand over and kissed the back of it, then let Paul help him up and lead him to the bed. They lay down facing one another, pulling the bedspread into a cozy tent, and pressed themselves together as tightly as they could. John's inquisitive fingers, so much stronger and firmer than any girl's had ever been, mapped every inch of Paul's flesh. In return, Paul, intoxicated with pure bliss, kissed and caressed John's familiar-yet-alien body until he could no longer tell where his soul ended and John's began. 

All too soon, Paul felt the telltale signs of orgasm building up inside him. Gasping, his back arching uncontrollably, he pulled away just enough to turn his face toward the pillow. Even when they were young boys "having a wank" at someone's house, even when he was with a girlfriend, he had never been able to let anyone see his face at that most intimate, vulnerable moment. 

John bent over him, stroking a strand of sweat-dampened hair from Paul's forehead. "You don't need to hide from me, Paulie," he crooned.

Paul let out a thin, apologetic cry but couldn't bring himself to move. 

"Please, Paul," John implored, his voice cracking with unrestrained emotion. "I need to see your eyes, baby. Please."

Somehow, Paul forced himself to turn back over and look at John. The adoration he saw in his face, the way John's sharp features softened with love for him, sent him over the edge, wailing John's name over and over. 

John followed, uncharacteristically quiet, with only the long, grateful sigh of someone whose eternal patience had finally been rewarded. 

Bewildering, giddy moments passed that Paul was too dazed to heed. Eventually, when they had tidied themselves up with John's undershirt, they wrapped their arms and legs together into a human lovers' knot with Paul's head tucked under John's chin.

When he was able to catch his breath and formulate a thought, Paul kissed the underside of John's jaw and asked, "How long have you known?" 

John hummed, and Paul could feel the vibrations of his Adam's apple. "I'm not sure. It was always somewhere behind me, like the background of a painting that you don't notice at first. I think I really understood it when you and Pete got deported. Seeing you hauled away, having you torn away from me like that... that must've been when I finally knew how far gone I was." He tightened his arms around Paul, who nestled closer. "What about you?" 

"Maybe it was that first day at the fete, listening to you screw up the lyrics to 'Come and Go With Me.' I knew right away that you desperately needed me," Paul said, enjoying the sound of John's chuckle. "It's funny - I've always tried so hard to get your approval, but I didn't know why, really, until you told me you loved me. Then it was suddenly so clear that I couldn't handle it." 

Kissing the top of Paul's head, John murmured, "We're quite a pair of clueless lads, but at least we have one another." He moved around restlessly for a moment. "Are you sleepy?" 

The question surprised Paul, who had to think about it before speaking. "No, weirdly enough. You?" 

"Too wired to sleep." John sat up and dragged Paul upright. He kissed the bridge of Paul's nose and grinned. "Let's go for a walk." 

"It's the middle of the night," Paul protested, but at the sight of John's exaggerated pout he shook his head, laughing. "All right, but if we get rumbled I'm hiding behind you." 

Dressing took a while longer than normal, interrupted for kisses and whispered promises of future carnal delights. Eventually they were ready - Paul was relieved to be in fresh, dry clothes - and they took to the Parisian streets. 

Dawn was just beginning to break when they found themselves in a coin-operated photo booth in a touristy area. It was silly and overpriced, but John shoved Paul behind the curtain and giggled like a schoolboy when he put the coins into the slot. They leaned against each other, two young men with their whole lives in front of them, and relished the closeness. 

Paul shifted from foot to foot, blowing on his hands, as they waited for the strip of pictures to emerge. When it did, John put on his glasses and inspected each frame. 

"Oh, God, my HAIR!" whined Paul. 

"I think you're dead gorgeous," was John's answer. He tore the bottom picture off and handed the rest to Paul. "Let's take this to Sylvie's, okay?" 

Paul was a little embarrassed, given the state she'd last seen him in, but he agreed, and the two of them headed to the cafe. It wasn't open yet, but Paul dragged John around the back and tested the rear door. Sure enough, the latch was unlocked, so Paul lifted it and let John - and Debussy - into the kitchen. He took a pen off of the little table and wrote: "To Sylvie, from John Lennon and Paul McCartney, with our love" on the picture while John played with the cat. 

Smiling, Paul tucked the photo into the handle of the refrigerator. "Ready?" he asked John. 

John gave Debussy a tickle under the chin, then followed Paul back outside. They headed for the Champs-Élysées, where they used Paul's camera to take photos of each other at the Arc de Triomphe until the film ran out. Paul rewound it and was preparing to take the canister out of the back of the camera when a familiar man caught his attention. "Hey!" he said, nudging John. "I think that's Jurgen over there." 

"Can't be," John said, handing Paul a fresh roll of film. 

"You wouldn't recognize ME from that distance without your spectacles, son, so put 'em on and see if I'm right." Paul reloaded the camera while John grudgingly set his glasses on his nose. 

"I'll be damned! I had no idea he'd be in Paris, did you?" 

"None. Let's catch up to him." Paul pocketed the camera and reached for John's hand. "C'mon, Johnny - come and go with me!" 

*** 

February, 1981

AIR Studio, Montserrat

  

It was definitely a scotch and Rodgers-and-Hammerstein kind of night. 

Paul had resumed work on "Tug of War," and it was going both brilliantly and horribly at the same time. Brilliantly, because he was finally in a place where singing didn't make him want to curl up in a ball and weep, and horribly because everyone was being ridiculously kind to him all of the time. 

He would have preferred that people tell him off when he was making a mistake, or have the gumption to say something like "No, I don't want to have dinner tonight because I've made other plans." Hell, he thought, he'd be happy if someone would just tell him a fucking joke. 

But half of the world's most famous songwriting team was gone, no one wanted to tell Paul a joke, and the only thing he wanted to hear was music by some other team, one with a happier ending than his own. To that end, he had the soundtrack to "The King and I" on the turntable, and Gertrude Lawrence was beginning to sing. 

 _Hello, young lovers, whoever you are,_  
_I hope your troubles are few._  
_All my good wishes go with you tonight;_  
_I've been in love once, too._

This might turn into a multiple-scotch night, Paul thought. He stood up, glass in hand, and went to the table where mail had been piled up, forwarded from the London offices by his staff. 

 _Be brave, young lovers, and follow your star,_  
_Be brave and faithful and true._  
_Cling very close to each other tonight,  
_ _I've been in love like you._

Maybe Sondheim or Weill would have been a better choice. Demon barbers or Macks-with-knives would have caused less pain. 

Paul tried to distract himself by faffing with a pile of fan mail. One airmail envelope, postmarked from Paris, caught his eye. It was stiffened with cardboard, indicating some kind of enclosure. Paul slit the envelope with his thumbnail and a small, yellowing photograph fluttered into his lap: Paul and John leaning against one another in a photo booth in Paris, twenty years ago. 

 _I know how it feels to have wings on your heels_  
_And to fly down the street in a trance._  
_You fly down a street on a chance that you'll meet,  
__And you meet--not really by chance._  

"Christ," Paul muttered, taking a long swallow of scotch. He picked the picture up carefully by the edges. Their inscription to Sylvie was slightly faded but still legible. He turned the stiff paper over and saw something written in fresh ink. The words, in spidery, feminine handwriting, were: "He loved you so, _sheyn eyngel_." 

 _Don't cry, young lovers, whatever you do._  
_Don't cry because I'm alone._  
_All of my memories are happy tonight--_  
_I've had a love of my own._  
_I've had a love of my own, like yours.  
_ _I've had a love of my own._

Paul kissed the photo, the ghost of John's face cool and dry against his lips. Carefully, mindful of its fragility, Paul tucked the picture into his shirt pocket and raised his glass in a silent toast.

 

***

End

***


End file.
